


My Dreamer Gave to Me

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Sappy, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 10:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Soft Prokopinsky for Christmas <3FYI: it starts out kinda smutty and ends up being tooth-rotting sweet. (I’m a sap, I’m sorry). This is obviously canon-divergent: In another life where Kavinsky didn’t die & he and Ronan weren’t enemies. However, Prokopenko is still a dream. I'm setting this Christmas of their senior year, assuming both of them are at least 18 years old.





	My Dreamer Gave to Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Christmas gift for @kamekiryu! Requested soft!Prokopinsky and I'm always willing to write a happy story for these boys :)

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

Prokopenko snorts and flips over, the sheets and blanket pushed down around his hips. His entire torso is on display, pale skin marked with love bites but unmarked by tattoos. He didn’t have any tattoos before.

“You asked me what I want for Christmas but now you act like my answer’s not good enough. Typical, K.” The look he gives Kavinsky is far too challenging to go unanswered. Kavinsky rolls on top of him and grabs his wrists, pushing them down against the pillow.

“I thought you would want something a little more…” he trails off. He knows Prokopenko well but he never predicted this answer. He thought it would be more of the same: drugs, thrills, maybe even new mods for his car. “Stupid.”

“Rude.” Proko would have smacked him if he could move his hands. Instead he arches up, pressing against K, his hips working, which isn’t punishing anyone. Kavinsky sucks in his moan and laughs instead. He kisses the side of Proko’s neck, wedges his thigh between Proko’s legs. He bites down a little to encourage Proko. Proko practically _mewls_ and grinds up, his body trembling beneath Kavinsky’s. It would be easier on him if they swapped positions but K’s not a fan of easy and neither is Proko, at least, not when they’re both sober.

“Where do you want it?” Kavinsky asks, lips moving along Proko’s shoulder.

“Wha..?” Proko moans. His face is flushed again, needy. He looks so good right now that Kavinsky can barely keep it together.

“Your tattoo, you slut,” Kavinsky says, giving him a quick kiss.

“Oh.” Proko grins but it’s sloppy. His eyes are half-closed and his body’s straining up against Kavinsky. The muscles in his arms are tensed as he tries to push up. His eyes slide shut and he bites his lip, his movements growing quicker, more urgent. Kavinsky lets go of his wrists and allows Prokopenko to drag him down, push him into the mattress. His question, very obviously, has been forgotten.

Proko’s a mess. His hands are everywhere, his rhythm is off, his hair is falling into his eyes and his mouth is open, gasping. He’s hot and hard and wet all at once, his thrusts stuttering as he loses focus.

“K…” he begs. “Please…”

“Yes?” It’s fun teasing him. It’s fun regardless but letting Proko work himself up, listening to the breathless whine in his voice… so good.

“Touch me.”

Proko could do it himself but it _is_ Christmas Eve so Kavinsky lends a hand. And, in the spirit of giving, things continue on from there until they’re both utterly fucked out; Proko’s original request, about the tattoo, is forgotten.

—–

Kavinsky remembers later while they gorge themselves on Fruit Loops because that’s, oddly enough, the only food in the house other than Flaming Hot Cheetos.

“Ilya,” he tosses a dry Fruit Loop in Proko’s direction, “where do you want your tattoo?”

Proko pulls his shirt up and drags the band of his sweatpants down. “Right here.” He taps at the area just within the V of his hips, specifically just to the left of his left hipbone.

“Classy,” Kavinsky smirks. Not that he can say anything. He has some provocatively placed tattoos. “Size?”

Proko considers. “Dunno. I guess once the artist draws it up we can see.”

Kavinsky swallows the rest of his Fruit Loops. Proko’s being unusually mysterious about the tattoo design. Hopefully it’ll be something sexy.

While Proko goes to get dressed and fix his hair Kavinsky locates his phone and calls his second favorite person in Henrietta. The line rings for so long he considers hanging up but then—

“For fuck’s sake it’s Christmas Eve, K,” Ronan Lynch growls. “Why are you calling me?!”

“Nice talking to you, too, Lynch,” Kavinsky says with a smile. He paces over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the backyard. Snow coats the ground. It must be several inches deep. “I need you to work your magic.”

Ronan sighs angrily. “I already helped you set up your Christmas date stuff, K. It’s all there, I made sure this morning.” Kavinsky can hear other voices in the background, Adam, Declan, others. He smiles and taps at the window.

“I know, I know. I owe you for that. But… I need to know who did your tattoo and if they might be available today.”

Ronan curses softly, probably so his dream child or raven won’t hear. “She _might_ be around,” he says, “and if you pay her a lot, like at least double, she _might_ do it today. Lemme give her a call and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, man,” Kavinsky replies. He wanders through the house, knocking his head on stray strands of tinsel and dreamt snowflakes and ornaments – compliments of Ronan – that seem to be self-levitating. It’s like living at fucking Hogwarts. He can hear Proko’s music coming from his room. Hopefully the slacker’s ready to leave.

“Yeah, don’t thank me yet. Actually, don’t thank me at all,” Ronan hastily corrects himself. “You _owe_ me.”

Kavinsky snorts. “You’re like dealing with the fucking fairies, man. No thank yous, only life debts.”

“Did you just call me a fairy?!” Ronan sounds properly pissed now. _Good_. Winding up Lynch 2 is almost as fun as teasing Proko.

“Well, you _are_ Irish,” Kavinsky laughs. Ronan cusses him out and hangs up.

Proko’s tugging at his sweater when Kavinsky enters his room. It’s snug, black, and has _I’ve been naughty_ knitted on the front. It goes great with Proko’s tight, green jeans and Doc Martens. To top it all off – literally – Proko’s bleached, ice white hair has been styled with streaks of red gel, making him look sort of like an evil candy cane. Well, a sexy evil candy cane.

“I can’t tell if this makes me look stupid or…” Proko shrugs helplessly. The gel coats his fingertips, making them look bloody.

“I like it,” Kavinsky says. He pulls Proko to him and kisses him long enough to get him flustered. Proko forgets about the gel on his hands and he winds his fingers through K’s dark hair, tugging and making it a mess all over again. Kavinsky doesn’t mind, though. He bites one last kiss on Proko’s throat before wrapping a soft red scarf around his neck.

He gives Proko time to recover and changes into his own Christmas gear: black jeans and a white sweater that has the words _GAY APPAREL_ knitted in flashy gold letters. There are some sequin ornaments, as well. The sweater was actually a gift from Ronan, a prank but Kavinsky is going to wear the hell out of it this holiday season. Gloves, boots, scarf, hat: good to go.

“K!” Proko falls on him, hands pushing into his back pockets, even though there’s not really room for them, and squeezing. “You look ass-tounding!” He giggles at his own horrible pun and Kavinsky groans.

They kiss again until K feels way too hot for the sweater. He pushes Proko away and tugs at his clothes, sweating underneath. Proko looks eager to get back into it but K holds him at arm’s length.

“We have errands,” K reminds him. “We can always fuck later. We have all day tomorrow.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Proko says with a wink. _This guy._ He’s impossible.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kavinsky says, taking Proko by the hand and leading him out to the Mitsubishi.

Ronan calls on the drive over and gives Kavinsky the details for his tattoo artist, Tae. Turns out the tattoo parlor, which is located a few towns over, is open and Tae doesn’t have any appointments so she was _thrilled_ to hear from Ronan and get two new clients.

“Be nice,” Ronan tells Kavinsky. “Tae’s an amazing artist and I don’t want her hating me if you act like an asshole.”

Kavinsky laughs. “She likes _you?_ You’re 100% Asshole, Lynch.”

“Not to people who are jabbing me with a needle!”

“Uh-huh. We’ll be good. Tell Parrish ‘hi’ for me.”

“Fuck off.” Ronan hangs up.

—–

The tattoo parlor, Ink Gods, is what Kavinsky expected: a little grungy, very punk, and the staff look like they give zero fucks about anything except tattoos. Someone had taken the effort to put up a strand of Christmas lights but other than that it’s not very festive. If Kavinsky cared what people thought of him he might have felt out of place toting his boyfriend into the death metal den of iniquity, both of them wearing tacky Christmas sweaters and skinny jeans. The man at the desk doesn’t smirk or betray any emotion as he gets their names and goes to retrieve Tae from her office.

Tae’s small and slender, covered in tattoos. Her black hair is chopped short and spiky and she has so many piercings that K has to stop and do another count.

“Hey boys,” she says. Her voice is sort of deep and her accent is English. _Interesting_. They exchange names and Tae moves on to business. “Are both of you getting tattoos or just one?”

“One,” Proko says at the same time that Kavinsky says, “Both.” Proko whips his head around to stare and Kavinsky shrugs, smiling enigmatically.

“Alright then. Who’s first?”

“Him,” Kavinsky says, placing his hand on Proko’s shoulder. He turns the touch into a caress, trying to help Proko relax.

“Cool. Ilya, right?” Proko nods. “What ideas do you have?”

Proko cuts a look to K and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He has several images saved and he goes through them with Tae, explaining the design he wants, and watches as she works up a few quick sketches. Kavinsky takes a seat and watches, mouth closed and hands fidgeting. Proko’s idea is so much more than what he expected. The thoughtfulness and the meaning… he swallows and stares at his phone, at the images he has saved. When it’s his turn he ask for a private consultation so Proko won’t know until the final moment what he intends to get. He’s sort of dying to see what expression Proko will make. Tae works up a design for him and he shows her where he wants it.

“You two…” Tae says, choosing her words, “are endgame, right?”

Kavinsky leans back against the wall in her tiny office, arms crossed over his chest. “I would like to think so,” he says.

“You’re both so young,” Tae continues, “getting tattoos like this, it’s a hell of a commitment.”

“I’m committed to him.” It feels so _big_ to admit it, to say it like that.

“Okay.” Tae nods. “Let me get everything ready and then we’ll get started. It’ll be about thirty more minutes if you need a smoke or whatever.”

K and Proko find the back alley and find some fun ways to pass thirty minutes, even if it’s colder than balls outside. They even smoke a little.

—–

Proko lays down on the tattoo table, his skin stretched taut over his slender hips. He wrinkles his nose as Tae wipes his skin clean and shaves him, not that he has much hair. She applies the design and Proko hops up to check it out in the mirror. Kavinsky stands behind him and hugs Proko, arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you like it?” Proko asks. There’s a tremble in his voice that undoes K’s composure.

Kavinsky meets his eyes in the mirror and kisses the side of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. He fully intends to show and tell Proko how much he fucking loves the tattoo later. But right now his mind is kind of blown and they have to make it through the tattooing process first.

They go back to Tae’s booth and she gets to work, leaning in and inking the intricate design. Proko gasps a little and grasps K’s hand.

“Hurts?” Kavinsky asks. He doesn’t like for Proko to hurt.

“A bit.” Proko’s face is paler, his eyes wide. “Talk to me?”

So Kavinsky does. They talk about superhero movies, bitch about school, discuss places they want to go. Tae works quickly and each part of the design gradually becomes permanent, a mark that Proko will carry to the end of his days. It makes Kavinsky’s heart ache, yanks at his feelings and the grief he’s buried deep.

“There.” Tae wipes at the tattoo one more time, clearing off blood and excess ink. The skin around the tattoo is pink and irritated but K still snaps a picture. The tattoo is beautiful and so full of meaning that Kavinsky can hardly stand it. Inked on Proko’s hip is a ley line – Kavinsky knows about the line thanks to Ronan and Adam – composed of three intersecting images: a slender, curved knife; a thick, thorn-spiked vine; and an arc of tire treads. In the center is the letter _K_ done in gothic calligraphy. Only the _K_ is colored, accented with a little bit of red, barely discernable unless you were really looking. Kavinsky is _really_ looking. Proko claims that he dreamed up the design one night, not too long ago. It’s impossible that Proko remembers but still—

“It’s amazing, Ilya,” Kavinsky murmurs. They stand in front of the mirror again, admiring. Proko’s shaking, his teeth chattering; he’s probably in shock. He wheels around suddenly and grabs Kavinsky, yanking him forward into a crushing kiss. Kavinsky keeps one hand braced on Proko’s abdomen, keeping the raw tattoo from brushing against him.

This moment… Kavinsky wants to bottle it, to put it in a fucking snow globe. Proko’s kissing him and it feels like forgiveness, absolution. And underneath it is the hot possessiveness flowing between them like an endless current feeding back into itself: _mine mine mine, you’re mine._ Kavinsky had always known Proko was his but it’s clear now that Proko feels just as possessive of him. _So fucking hot_.

“Alright guys,” Tae calls, “break it up. We got one more tattoo and I want to be home before dark.”

Kavinsky nips Proko’s lip. “The best,” he says, so that only Proko can hear him, “is yet to come.”

“Promises, promises,” Proko teases, taking Kavinsky’s hand as they return to the booth.

Tae bandages Proko while Kavinsky strips off his sweater and undershirt and lies down. Tae gets him prepped and places the design over his heart. He doesn’t even need to get up and see it because Proko’s strangled cry is all the affirmation he needs. Stretched over his heart is an infinity symbol with Прокопе́нко – Ilya’s surname, in Ukrainian – inscribed on the twisting curves. It’s a simple design but sharp. He looks down and wants to touch it. It feels like a brand, a manifestation of the deep hold that Prokopenko has on him, on his soul. Tae asks him if he likes it and he nods wordlessly. _It’s really happening._

His tattoo takes less time than Proko’s and they’re quiet throughout the entire process. The sting of the needle isn’t bad and it’s something K is used to from his other tattoos. What’s new is Proko at his side, head on his shoulder, tracing his fingers from Kavinsky’s wrist to his elbow and back down, over and over, as he watches his name become a permanent mark on Kavinsky’s chest. It’s soothing and good and… he doesn’t deserve it. But he wants to. He’ll do whatever it takes to deserve this.

—-

When all is said and done they leave Tae $500 richer and promise to tell all their friends about her. She gives them both pats on the back and wishes them a Merry Christmas. Kavinsky isn’t certain but he thinks she’s humming “Jingle Bells” when they leave the parlor.

The sun is going down, barely visible between the mountains and the heavy white clouds that promise more snow, and it’s dark by the time they make it to Proko’s favorite Chinese restaurant. They get a booth by the window and order all their favorite dishes, eating ravenously. Proko’s jitters finally go away and he looks normal again, not like he’s about to pass out. His humor returns and soon he’s back to being a brat, teasing and laughing. So provoking.

Kavinsky watches him and feels fondness welling up in his heart. He’s felt soft towards Prokopenko before but for a long time _soft_ felt dangerous. Choosing Proko, setting aside the others for him… that wasn’t something that happened over night. And the journey to this moment hasn’t been easy. There were fights, jealousy, a whole lot of hurting and anger. What had Tae called them? Endgame. Kavinsky smiles and shoves a piece of sesame chicken in Proko’s mouth. Is this what endgame looks like, feels like—a temporary sting followed by a forever bond? Is Proko feeling this, too?

“How are you doing?” he asks. “All recovered?”

Proko rolls his eyes. “I was just shaky because someone stabbed a lot of ink into my skin! I’m sorry I don’t have your _epic_ endurance.”

Kavinsky doesn’t miss the double entendre. “It is pretty epic, isn’t it?”

Proko sticks his tongue out and manages to eat an eggroll, dripping with sweet and sour sauce, in the most erotic way possible.

“Cute,” Kavinsky says. He gets the check and a box of to-go fried doughnuts, hauling Proko out before they cause a scene. This _is_ their favorite place, after all. Enormous tips only cover so many sins.

“So, what’s next?” Proko asks once they’re back in the car. The heat is turned up as high as it’ll go. Kavinsky makes Proko hold the doughnuts while he gets back on he road.

“Got a little surprise,” he says. They drive through downtown Henrietta, the shops are closed but their Christmas lights are on, turning the small strip into a confection of lights. Kavinsky takes a scenic route to their destination, winding through small neighborhoods that have the best lights (he had Skov and Swan check them out before hand). Proko’s glued to window, ooing and ahhing over the displays. Even Kavinsky is impressed. Some neighborhoods are really into, each house and lawn radiating multicolored lights, blown up Santas and snowmen sharing space with real snowmen.

They leave the neighborhoods eventually and head for the country. Lone houses dot the fields, some of them decorated, light reflecting off a pristine blanket of snow. Kavinsky has to admit—it’s beautiful. He never thought he would like Henrietta but it’s grown on him. Or maybe he’s changed.

The abandoned fairgrounds have been transformed from a trashy makeshift racetrack and teen party spot to a mini winter wonderland. Once again, Kavinsky has Ronan to thank. Ronan’s better at this—dreaming nice things, dreaming light and color and life. Ronan put it all together, with the help of Declan and Jiang, a few days ago so he could use it for his date with Parrish. Now it’s Kavinsky’s turn to work a little Christmas magic for Prokopenko.

“Oh my god, K,” Proko whispers. “Did you-did you do this for _me_?”

“Yeah. Well, I commissioned Ronan but… yeah.” They park the car and get out. There’s a tent, sort of like a circus tent but smaller, pitched next to the fire pit. The tent is white and draped in twinkle lights. Inside it’s warm and soft pillows and blankets are piled in the corners. K grimaces a little. Lynch went overboard. The entire setup is entirely too soft.

“Wow,” Proko says, stooping to pick up a bottle. “Fancy!”

He’s holding a bottle of champagne. Kavinsky had dreamt it a couple weeks ago, specifically for tonight. Proko sets down the box of doughnuts and hands the bottle to K.

“Time to get tipsy?” He asks with a grin.

“Fuck yeah,” Kavinsky replies, snagging the front of Proko’s sweater and pulling him in for a kiss. “But first, fire.” He locates another bottle, a Molotov cocktail, and passes it to Proko. “Light ‘er up,” he says, pointing at the pile of wooden pallets waiting to be burned.

Proko’s smile is hot enough to ignite the makeshift bomb. He retrieves the lighter K gave him last year on his birthday and uses it to set the cloth alight before lobbing the bottle into the fire pit. The pallets catch instantly and the heat is scorching, the light blinding. Proko yells and cheers, delighting in the mayhem just as much as Kavinsky does.

Kavinsky uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses. The champagne is like liquid gold but light and… _effervescent_. They down their glasses quickly and drink more, laughing and falling together onto the pillows.

“What,” Kavinsky starts and then hiccups, “what was the name on your room, that first year at Aglionby?”

Proko squints at the fire, lips pulled into an exaggerated pout. “Modesty, I think. Then Diligence and Piety. Really, you’d think the founders would have know their virtues would be lost on us.”

“True,” Kavinsky sips more champagne. “This year it’s…”

“Devotion,” Proko says quietly. He sets his glass down and clambers onto K’s lap. “I didn’t need to learn that one.”

His lips are soft and his mouth is warm and he’s gentle as he pulls off Kavinsky’s sweater, minding the bandage on his chest. He places his palm over the bandage and kisses Kavinsky again and again.

 _Gentle_. It’s a fairly new concept for them but Proko likes it and Kavinsky’s beginning to like it, too. And with their tattoos wrapped up they need to be careful anyways. Everything is slow and easy. Proko tastes like honey and his words are just as sweet. They say all the things they haven’t said before, things that were too deep or too vulnerable to be acknowledged. Each truth feels like a reward.

Kavinsky’s phone chimes and he spares it a glance before returning to Proko.

“It’s midnight,” he whispers. Proko’s laid out beneath him like a gift that’s already been unwrapped. He stretches lazily and his heel catches behind Kavinsky’s knee. His smile is pleased and happy.

“Merry Christmas, Joseph,” Proko murmurs.

“Merry Christmas, Ilya.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


End file.
